While discussing options with Will, I'm gratified to see my husband's think tank flip its switch from emotional human being to experienced surgical mode, for this reason: While Will considers each choice knowledgeably and thus methodically, my intuition has sound reason to line up with his professional line of reasoning, spontaneously.
Thank goodness, I don't have to play twenty questions while listening to the precise nature of my husband's surgical mindset eliminate options, beginning with …
Russian Roulette, which means do nothing:
As is true when engaging in any war, one's choice of attack when battling cancer proves a gamble at best. Even so, none of Will's options gives me the shivers as much as closing our eyes to the fact that diseased cells, which have been freely invading healthy tissue for years, will continue to march, here and there, without restraint, thus allowing this dread disease to grow ever more widespread, year in and year out. Though one cousin had chosen this option, I was relieved when Will did not even write this choice on his pad.
Traditional methods of radiating the gland are dismissed for this reason: If, with the passage of time, it is determined that radiation has not eradicated the disease, surgery is no longer possible, because scarred tissue, surrounding radiated tissue, fails to heal.
A new approach to radiating diseased tissue injects pellets containing seeds of radiation into the gland; however, Will does not consider this a viable choice for this reason: It's impossible to direct these pellets to radiate the most cancer ridden portions of the gland. And, once again, if there is a resurgence of disease, tissue adjacent to radiated areas scars down, suggesting that surgical intervention is no longer an option.
Though robotic surgery, which being less invasive than open surgery provides an easier recovery, statistics continue to prove that the results of this option, in terms of longevity, match results following open surgery. However, this caveat tips Will's intuition toward favoring open surgery: Will agrees with Dr. B's stance, which I'll paraphrase here: Though I was trained to perform both surgeries, here is why I've chosen not to do robotic surgery: During robotic surgery, the patient and surgeon are in separate rooms. (This fact surprises me, immensely.) Then, continuing to paraphrase Dr B: While performing surgery, which proves this delicate, I feel the need to see living tissue close up. I need to actually feel the tissue between my fingers while determining precisely where to cut in hopes of separating disease from healthy tissue, thus saving as many nerves, which enervate erectile function and urinary continence, as possible. (I have no doubt that during his six weeks wait, preceding his surgery for prostate cancer, his surgeon's precision must have felt as vital to Dr. B as Dr. B's precision is vital to Will—and me.)
Will, who'd scoped countless knees over the past forty years, concurs that he'd prefer a sharp eyed, steadied, hands on approach when cancer is the enemy. (As for me, common sense suggests that my comfort zone lines up with that of both physicians, who have earned sterling reputations within the medical community.) Therefore, when gambling with longevity and sparing the nerve bundle which services erectile function and urinary continence, I can clearly see why Will and Dr. B suggest that recovering from open surgery seems a small price to pay for greater peace of mind in years to come …w
Thus, it seems likely that open surgery is the option pointing toward resolution for Will. On the other hand, Will's surgical mind opts for thoroughness, and as Dr. B agrees that seeking second and third opinions proves wise, he provides Will with contact information for two robotic surgeons, whose reputations are as sterling Jerry's, and in addition to that fact, both are Jerry's friends, as in—birds of a feather etc. etc.
As our appointment, which had extended over an hour and a half, is winding down, my head swells with knowledge that had been absent when I'd first sat down. In fact I don't think it's possible for my mind to absorb one more fact until Will asks how quickly surgery can be scheduled after second opinions settle his mind, and just that fast, my attitude of weariness switches to eagerness to listen up and absorb Dr. B's response—I mean, slow growing or not, thoughts of cancer invading healthy tissue catalyzes anxiety's pressing need to put this rainy day behind us in hopes that a sunny result will provide all three of us with smiling sighs of relief—tomorrow, tomorrow— it's only a day away …
If asked why worry about the waiting game when prostate cancer is slow to grow, I'd reply: We've learned that several biopsies, which had proved positive, are bulging against the margin of the gland, and this bulge at the edge does not protend well for peace of mind, because this cancer has been growing in Will's body for years, and none can tell which day one of those bulging cancer cells will cross the line, meaning that—shudder the thought—metestatic disease may already be on the march. …
In tomorrow's post, I'll explain why Dr. B's response to 'how soon' shocks our socks off as we learn that the waiting game has barely begun …
PS
Today marks the fifty-second anniversary of the day when a tall, wiry, athletic, nineteen year old, pre med student, sporting a crew cut and a twinkle in his eye rang my front doorbell and then waited on my front stoop while a seventeen year old, blue eyed, brunette, high school senior stole one last glance in her dresser mirror before running down the stairs, eager to open her front door and meet her blind date, who'd sounded like lots of fun on the phone. I mean, guess what he'd suggested they do, tonight? Go to a movie? Bowling? No way.
As Annie introduces this young man to her mom and then grabs her hat, coat and gloves, her blind date cautions his soon-to-be girlfriend to dress warmly, because it will be cold on the pond, where he plans to spin her around the ice until, feeling dizzied, she has to hold on to him ever more tightly in hopes of not falling down. Then while smiling delightedly at Annie, who is hugging her mom good night, her blind date holds out his hand to carry her ice skates to the car. While the young pair walk out of the foyer into the crisp, star studded night air, Annie's mom reminds her elder daughter to be home no later than midnight, which, if you remember, proves to be the bewitching hour.
While walking carefully over patches of ice on her way to Will's car, Annie has no clue that she is destined to hold hands with this smart young man for better and worse while they raise a family of three rollicking, little boys, who will, over the years, have been given sound reason to grow up to be a trio of strong, compassionate, emotionally intelligent human beings, who will have learned to make good use of five simple tools, thus injecting their minds and spirits with the ability to balance work with play (couldn't resist that plug :)
Next thing we know, Annie and Will make their way toward the pond before moving on to whatever lies beyond, concerning that which fate has in store for two unique individuals, who are about to skate and smile and laugh and, over time, develop into fast friends—until they break up … and one story follows another until two thirds of their future has flown into the past as fast as both can blink twice …
At this point in today's post, I'll offer up one last train of thought in hopes that this insight may linger in your minds till tomorrow: As life zooms by with the speed of light, let's imagine Annie and Will laying eyes on each other and exchanging smiles on that cold winter's night, with no clue that the time will come when they'll skate on thin ice—then, let's take a leap of faith across the timeline of their lives until we land upon today, where we'll imagine your friend, Annie taking you by the hand while she zooms back and forth across the short duration of years that make up the decades of her life in hopes of coloring in the ways that a positively focused attitude chooses to take sadness in stride, so that step by step, story by story, you too may find reason to consider yourself to be one of the lucky ducks, who fly high in the sky with that fortunate flock of birds of a feather whose memories are made up of many more reasons to smile than frown … And then, no matter how many miles separate your flock from mine, we'll feel free to close the gap by sipping from the very same cup, which overflows with gratitude for two lives, well lived, much more often than not :)
You see, at every stage of life, our spirits have sound reason to fly at half mast whether this be due to our minds feeling naturally conflicted, anxious, angry or sad. On the other hand, each human mind is capable of seeking solutions with silver linings that place the blues in perspective, and here is why today's last insight is true: Each time we dive into our memory banks in hopes of retrieving beautiful moments in time, blue is just one color within the spectrum of that wondrous rainbow of natural emotional reactions, which follow in the sunny aftermath of each person's decision-making storms—and here is why I know this last insight to offer the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth: Your brain is a wondrously complex machine as is mine. And as with all machines, which go on ticking like a Timex that's taken a licking, every brain finds itself in need of an oil, lube and tune up, from time to time. And a clear shot of positive focus tunes up our brains in record time—because—attitude is everything :)
Tomorrow, we'll turn the page to find out why the waiting game between Will's biopsies and his surgery is about to extend for longer than six weeks time—
Thank goodness, I don't have to play twenty questions while listening to the precise nature of my husband's surgical mindset eliminate options, beginning with …
Russian Roulette, which means do nothing:
As is true when engaging in any war, one's choice of attack when battling cancer proves a gamble at best. Even so, none of Will's options gives me the shivers as much as closing our eyes to the fact that diseased cells, which have been freely invading healthy tissue for years, will continue to march, here and there, without restraint, thus allowing this dread disease to grow ever more widespread, year in and year out. Though one cousin had chosen this option, I was relieved when Will did not even write this choice on his pad.
Traditional methods of radiating the gland are dismissed for this reason: If, with the passage of time, it is determined that radiation has not eradicated the disease, surgery is no longer possible, because scarred tissue, surrounding radiated tissue, fails to heal.
A new approach to radiating diseased tissue injects pellets containing seeds of radiation into the gland; however, Will does not consider this a viable choice for this reason: It's impossible to direct these pellets to radiate the most cancer ridden portions of the gland. And, once again, if there is a resurgence of disease, tissue adjacent to radiated areas scars down, suggesting that surgical intervention is no longer an option.
Will, who'd scoped countless knees over the past forty years, concurs that he'd prefer a sharp eyed, steadied, hands on approach when cancer is the enemy. (As for me, common sense suggests that my comfort zone lines up with that of both physicians, who have earned sterling reputations within the medical community.) Therefore, when gambling with longevity and sparing the nerve bundle which services erectile function and urinary continence, I can clearly see why Will and Dr. B suggest that recovering from open surgery seems a small price to pay for greater peace of mind in years to come …w
Thus, it seems likely that open surgery is the option pointing toward resolution for Will. On the other hand, Will's surgical mind opts for thoroughness, and as Dr. B agrees that seeking second and third opinions proves wise, he provides Will with contact information for two robotic surgeons, whose reputations are as sterling Jerry's, and in addition to that fact, both are Jerry's friends, as in—birds of a feather etc. etc.
As our appointment, which had extended over an hour and a half, is winding down, my head swells with knowledge that had been absent when I'd first sat down. In fact I don't think it's possible for my mind to absorb one more fact until Will asks how quickly surgery can be scheduled after second opinions settle his mind, and just that fast, my attitude of weariness switches to eagerness to listen up and absorb Dr. B's response—I mean, slow growing or not, thoughts of cancer invading healthy tissue catalyzes anxiety's pressing need to put this rainy day behind us in hopes that a sunny result will provide all three of us with smiling sighs of relief—tomorrow, tomorrow— it's only a day away …
If asked why worry about the waiting game when prostate cancer is slow to grow, I'd reply: We've learned that several biopsies, which had proved positive, are bulging against the margin of the gland, and this bulge at the edge does not protend well for peace of mind, because this cancer has been growing in Will's body for years, and none can tell which day one of those bulging cancer cells will cross the line, meaning that—shudder the thought—metestatic disease may already be on the march. …
In tomorrow's post, I'll explain why Dr. B's response to 'how soon' shocks our socks off as we learn that the waiting game has barely begun …
PS
Today marks the fifty-second anniversary of the day when a tall, wiry, athletic, nineteen year old, pre med student, sporting a crew cut and a twinkle in his eye rang my front doorbell and then waited on my front stoop while a seventeen year old, blue eyed, brunette, high school senior stole one last glance in her dresser mirror before running down the stairs, eager to open her front door and meet her blind date, who'd sounded like lots of fun on the phone. I mean, guess what he'd suggested they do, tonight? Go to a movie? Bowling? No way.
As Annie introduces this young man to her mom and then grabs her hat, coat and gloves, her blind date cautions his soon-to-be girlfriend to dress warmly, because it will be cold on the pond, where he plans to spin her around the ice until, feeling dizzied, she has to hold on to him ever more tightly in hopes of not falling down. Then while smiling delightedly at Annie, who is hugging her mom good night, her blind date holds out his hand to carry her ice skates to the car. While the young pair walk out of the foyer into the crisp, star studded night air, Annie's mom reminds her elder daughter to be home no later than midnight, which, if you remember, proves to be the bewitching hour.
While walking carefully over patches of ice on her way to Will's car, Annie has no clue that she is destined to hold hands with this smart young man for better and worse while they raise a family of three rollicking, little boys, who will, over the years, have been given sound reason to grow up to be a trio of strong, compassionate, emotionally intelligent human beings, who will have learned to make good use of five simple tools, thus injecting their minds and spirits with the ability to balance work with play (couldn't resist that plug :)
Next thing we know, Annie and Will make their way toward the pond before moving on to whatever lies beyond, concerning that which fate has in store for two unique individuals, who are about to skate and smile and laugh and, over time, develop into fast friends—until they break up … and one story follows another until two thirds of their future has flown into the past as fast as both can blink twice …
At this point in today's post, I'll offer up one last train of thought in hopes that this insight may linger in your minds till tomorrow: As life zooms by with the speed of light, let's imagine Annie and Will laying eyes on each other and exchanging smiles on that cold winter's night, with no clue that the time will come when they'll skate on thin ice—then, let's take a leap of faith across the timeline of their lives until we land upon today, where we'll imagine your friend, Annie taking you by the hand while she zooms back and forth across the short duration of years that make up the decades of her life in hopes of coloring in the ways that a positively focused attitude chooses to take sadness in stride, so that step by step, story by story, you too may find reason to consider yourself to be one of the lucky ducks, who fly high in the sky with that fortunate flock of birds of a feather whose memories are made up of many more reasons to smile than frown … And then, no matter how many miles separate your flock from mine, we'll feel free to close the gap by sipping from the very same cup, which overflows with gratitude for two lives, well lived, much more often than not :)
You see, at every stage of life, our spirits have sound reason to fly at half mast whether this be due to our minds feeling naturally conflicted, anxious, angry or sad. On the other hand, each human mind is capable of seeking solutions with silver linings that place the blues in perspective, and here is why today's last insight is true: Each time we dive into our memory banks in hopes of retrieving beautiful moments in time, blue is just one color within the spectrum of that wondrous rainbow of natural emotional reactions, which follow in the sunny aftermath of each person's decision-making storms—and here is why I know this last insight to offer the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth: Your brain is a wondrously complex machine as is mine. And as with all machines, which go on ticking like a Timex that's taken a licking, every brain finds itself in need of an oil, lube and tune up, from time to time. And a clear shot of positive focus tunes up our brains in record time—because—attitude is everything :)
Tomorrow, we'll turn the page to find out why the waiting game between Will's biopsies and his surgery is about to extend for longer than six weeks time—
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